


An Open Cage

by supersoakerx



Series: White-Winged Dove [1]
Category: Sleepover - SNL Sketch (2020)
Genre: Christmas Themes, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Masturbation, Underage!Reader, Vaginal Fingering, virgin!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28382964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: Aidy throws Reader a lifeline on Christmas Day, and Reader attempts to seduce Mr Pennyham later that night.
Relationships: Peter Pennyham/Reader, Peter Pennyham/You
Series: White-Winged Dove [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078793
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	An Open Cage

**Author's Note:**

> Because I have not stopped thinking about my Hiatus Thot with this man, I wrote this.
> 
> White-Winged Dove is a series/AU featuring stories about Peter Pennyham (37 M) and underage!virgin!Reader (17 F) - consider this one-shot part of that new thang!
> 
> There's some GoT references in here, lemme know if you get 'em x

Christmas has to be your least favourite time of year. You dread the holidays, and the many emotions they churn up from the depths of your psyche. The festivities waken these dormant feelings from hibernation, and bring them to the surface of your mind to do nothing but torment you. The loss, the heartache, the problems, the hurt.

It’s the day you do your best acting, every 25 December.

So when Aidy messages you late in the cloudy afternoon to come hang at her place, saying that they’ve got heaps of leftovers and she really wants to see you—you jump at the chance of freedom.

There’s just one problem.

Y: No ride Dottie  
Aidy P: Folks can’t bring you??  
Y: Negative  
Aidy P: One sec

You’re stuck between feelings. On the one hand, chilling disappointment, and on the other—you almost don’t wish to let it bloom, for fearing of losing it and feeling the worse for that—bright, shining hope.

Moments pass. Your chest falling, you almost tuck your phone away, but a new message alert pops up at the last second.

Aidy P: Dad coming in 15  
Aidy P: See you soon!!!!  
Aidy P: Bring pjs girl xxxx

By the time Mr Pennyham pulls into your driveway, you're already waiting outside by the front door for him, a packed overnight bag clutched tight in your hand and goodbyes to your family quickly spoken.

Your whole being lifts when you see him, and you almost run for the [old 70s Pontiac](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ce/35/1b/ce351bdd96576e212083f3305b70ffae.jpg). You can't remember feeling so pleased to see the brown station wagon you’d often teased Mr Pennyham about.

He hadn’t minded, though. He’d liked to see your cheeky smile when you sassed him for needing to wind the windows down by hand. He liked that he’d kept in good shape the car his father bequeathed to him. Liked that the front seats were one continuous bench and that the belt that strapped you in for safety didn’t cut across your chest.

He’s barely put the car in park in the driveway, before you're pulling at the door handle to be let inside.

In this old car, locks weren't electric, and Mr Pennyham leans over the broad seat to flick the door open.

You leap inside, and pull the heavy door closed quickly, breathing a sigh of relief you didn’t realise you’d been holding in.

“Hey, kiddo,” his voice and face are laced with concern. “I’ll just, uh,” he looks you over, his furrow and frown deepening, “I’ll just go say 'hi' to your folks—”

“No,” you blurt, a little too sharply. “I mean.” You catch his eyes, rich cocoa brown, and warm, if a little worried. “I’m sorry, Mister Pennyham. Please could you just...”

You trail off, unable to find the words. Although... what had he asked you to call him?

As if you had forgotten.

Peter.

His heart breaks for you. Everything in him wants to reach out and touch you. Hold you. Tell you it’s all ok even though he doesn’t even know exactly what _it all_ is. Aidy had told him you didn’t have the best relationship with your family, and he’d gathered from all the time you spent with his daughter, and the little things you’d said here and there, that you didn’t love being at home too much. He’d overheard a couple of bits of conversation when you and Aidy had chatted in the backseat, but he’d never pushed you for an explanation.

If he could open his happy house to you, offer you safe refuge from whatever storm you were facing, he’d do that to the very best of his ability—no questions asked.

Now, on Christmas, he imagines it’s all ten times worse. He hates to see you like this, a mimicry of the girl he’s come to know and. Know and. Know and have deep, deep feeling for. It’s like an anvil on his chest, to see you looking so… utterly and completely sad.

He’d say broken, but he knows you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, and he’s torn from stewing on who and what could’ve caused this when you turn to look at him.

With eyes full of brave, unshed tears, you look to him and say, “please. Can you just take me away from this place?”

Mr Pennyham’s fingers tremble to touch you so badly they feel numb. To cradle your cheek; to rest his palm on your shoulder and give you a comforting squeeze.

He sighs your name. "Sweetheart. Of course."

You belt yourself in, securing yourself with a strap and buckle like the ones aeroplane seats have. Mr Pennyham looks to your house—but there’s no one at the door waving you off, and no one looking out the windows to see who’s come to take you away—and he puts the car in reverse.

The drive to his home is relatively quiet, but it’s not even close to awkward. He’d asked you if you wanted to talk. He’d asked if you wanted him to listen, or give you advice, or rattle on about nothing to take your mind off things. He’d asked if you wanted music, and when you’d agreed, he’d let you pick from the collection of old bands’ CDs in the glove box.

It was the most modern sound system this 70s car could handle.

You’d sat in comfortable silence as the album played, but as ‘ _Walk On_ ’ streams through the stereo, you feel a deep, aching sorrow rush through you. After keeping them tightly locked away all day, you struggle to hold the tears back now.

You reach your hand across the seat, reaching out for Mr Pennyham as you look out your window and let large, hot tears roll down the sides of your face.

Your hand catches Mr Pennyham’s eye. He sees that before he sees you turned pointedly away, sees the arrhythmic stuttering of your chest. “Hey,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand and squeezing. You squeeze him back, harder. “Oh, sweetheart,” he looks back and forth between you to the road quickly. He’s just around the corner from home, and he pulls over in a side street and quits the ignition, the car rumbling to silence. “Come here, kiddo.”

You clutch his hand, shake your head.

Mr Pennyham frowns. He speaks softly when he murmurs your name, and you sob with embarrassment when you realise he’ll see you all puffy and gross with tears. This isn’t the side of yourself you want him to see. It’s so childish, and it’s definitely not attractive, and you’d sell your soul to turn off the waterworks in front of him—but there’s this overwhelming sense of despair that pushes on your chest and doesn’t let you escape from it.

Mr Pennyham, with a daughter of his own, is no stranger to the complexities of teenage girls’ emotions and the fits of crying that can accompany them. He sighs, and gently he says, “I’m not afraid of a little salt water, kiddo. Come here.”

Another sob bursts through. You’re squeezing his hand so tight you’re sure you could break a few of his bones. All the anguish comes pouring out of you, safe from the outside world and all it would do to you, cocooned in here with Mr Pennyham in his big old car.

Mr Pennyham whispers your name. “You deserve to be held, sweetheart.” He slowly unbuckles his seatbelt and tries to catch your gaze. “Come have a cuddle.”

“I’ll fuck up your shirt,” you say quickly, and you hate how nasal your voice sounds. You can’t bring yourself to look at him.

Mr Pennyham recognises it as another excuse. “I’ve got others. I’ve got a washing machine. Let me hold you,” he squeezes your hand, “come here, sweetheart.”

Quicker than either of you expect, you rip off your belt and throw yourself into him. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and let your tears loose into his neck, and Mr Pennyham holds you close. “I’ve you got you, sweetheart. You can cry. I’m here.” He slides his arms around your middle and soothingly runs one palm up and down your back as he coos to you, absorbing the tremors of your vibrating body as you let all your built up emotions go in tiny, salty rivulets.

After a few minutes he feels you settle against his body, and hears your breathing return to normal. He pulls a blue and grey handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to you—and you take it gladly, dabbing at your eyes.

It smells a little like him, and is warmed from being in his pocket all day.

You rest back against the seat. “Shit. Sorry,” you gesture to the damp patches on the shoulder and collar of his buttoned shirt.

“’s ok,” he’s quick to reassure you with a subtle shake of his head. “All good here, kiddo. I mean it.”

You sniff. His hanky is soft in your palm.

“You ready to go?”

You look into his deep warm eyes, and nod. You even manage a small smile. “Thanks, Mister Pennyham.”

He smiles kindly at you. “Peter,” he reminds you, and starts the engine.

**XXXX**

It’s warm, cosy and well-lit in the basement, and with Aidy you sit, clad in comfy pyjamas and soft, fluffy socks, chatting about everything and nothing over a bowl of crunchy chips.

Christmas is hard for her too, since her Mum—Lisa—left a few years ago. She’d been talking about how this year, the big family gathering on Christmas Day was even tougher than usual, because Lisa had brought her new partner. Aidy could tell her Dad was hurt, she was saying—even though he smiled and shook the guy’s hand—when there was a knock on the wall at the top of the stairs.

“Knock, knock, knock! Dad alert!” says Mr Pennyham cherrily. He comes down the stairs making that silly siren sound, and you both roll your eyes and chuckle at him. “How are we doing down here, ladies?” he asks, his arms completely full as he crosses the floor to you.

“Fine, Dad,” Aidy drones, taking the offered plate from her father.

Mr Pennyham hands you a plate too, plentiful with a motley assortment of Christmas lunch leftovers—lasagne, roast chicken, potato salad, honeyed carrots, a buttered bread roll, and is that some tabouleh?

He sets another plate with slices of cakes and some homemade pastries on the floor between you, as well as a large bottle of orange fizzy drink and two disposable cups. “Alright,” he sighs, standing with his hands on his hips. “How’d I do, girls?”

“Awesome,” you say. He’s made the pair of you a miniature feast.

“This is great, Dad. Thanks,” says Aidy, and her Dad smiles and ducks down to press a quick kiss to her forehead.

“Alright, good,” he says. He holds his hands up defensively, like he’s got just one more thing to say and then he’ll quit the room. “Now, I’ll leave you two to it, but come up soon, ok? It’s come over dark, and if it storms this’ll be the first place the power goes out.” He looks up at the ceiling, scrutinising the lightbulbs as if he can inspect the electrical wiring inside the drywall.

“Ok, Dad,” says Aidy, at the same time as you say, “sure thing, Mister Pennyham.”

A part of you—a part you’re none too proud of—wonders if you should keep Aidy chatting down here as long as possible. Maybe Mr Pennyham would come get you, take your hand and lead you through the dark, with only candlelight as his guide.

**XXXX**

Mr Pennyham has really, _really_ comfy couches.

The three seaters are arranged in an L-shape. Aidy sprawls out on one, laying perpendicular to the TV, and you and Mr Pennyham share the other one, directly in front of the TV.

You sit a respectable distance apart as some old action flick plays on the screen. “Die Hard,” Mr Pennyham had said, when you and Aidy had come up from the basement, “a classic,” and as dark clouds gathered on Christmas Night he’d convinced you both to watch it with him.

You toy with the tasselled ends of the blanket he’d gotten for your comfort, not even close to paying attention to the movie. You keep glancing sidelong at Aidy, who’d fallen asleep where she lay a little while ago.

Being truthful with yourself, you’d hoped for such a scenario. Hoped for it so much, that when you’d showered earlier you forewent any and all underwear: no cute lacy bralette, no panties. Nothing but sheer optimism beneath your warm, cosy pyjamas.

Aidy’s completely out, and it almost persuades you that you could put a move on Mr Pennyham, before your better judgement wins out and you sit rooted to your spot.

Mr Pennyham has a very handsome profile. He’s crossed his leg loosely, one ankle resting on his thigh, which he holds in place with one hand. In his other palm, a Heineken that he sips from slowly.

“Oh I love this part,” he murmurs, eyes glued to the TV as you subtly—you think it’s subtly—appreciate his in-shape form, long legs, thick fingers dwarfing the green bottle in his palm. The cuffs of his dark blue, white-checked shirt are rolled loosely to his elbows, and his ashen brown hair hides almost all of his ear—but a little bit of his lobe peeks out.

You see he breathes in, watching the screen, and his brows pull up a little like he’s readying for something.

A noisy explosion booms through the sound system, at the same time as the night’s first clap of boisterous thunder crackles in the sky, so loud it sounds right above the house.

Aidy starts awake with a yelp, jumping up out of her comfy spot on the couch.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, a little startled by all the very sudden and very loud noises.

Even Mr Pennyham jumped a little. “Hey, Aidy. Honey. Hey now,” Mr Pennyham tries to soothe his startled daughter out of her rude awakening and post-nap disorientation. “You ok, Dee?” he says, with a small, amused smile on his face as Aidy looks around lost.

Aidy sits up, unfurling her legs from her blanket and rubbing her neck. “Oh my God,” she yawns, “that was loud as fuck.”

Now that she’s settled, you feel it’s safe to laugh. “You jumped so high, Dottie. I’ve never heard you scream like that.”

“Shut up,” she smiles at you. She stretches, “I was having a good dream,” looks at the TV and says, “is this shit still on?”

“Come on now,” Mr Pennyham warns in his Dad-tone voice. He didn’t mind swearing, he knows you two do it anyway, but he didn’t like to hear it unless it was warranted.

“Ugh, I’m going to bed,” Aidy says, getting up and dumping her blanket on the couch.

“Night, Dot,” says Mr Pennyham, his gaze going back to the TV.

“Goodnight Dottie,” you reach for your friend as she passes you, and she squeezes your hand and sasses you about how you can stand to watch movies from the 1980s.

She pecks her Dad on the cheek, and wishes him a Merry Christmas as she makes her way up the stairs.

“Merry Christmas, Dee,” Mr Pennyham calls after her, eyes on the TV, “sleep tight, honey.”

You’ve never listened for anything as keenly as you listen now. You hear Aidy ascend the stairs, but rain starts to pour down on the house, and you only _think_ you hear Aidy’s door close.

You sit for a few, long, moments, giving it more time than you think you need, just in case Aidy’s still fucking around upstairs. When the movie cuts to an ad break—you don’t give it any more thought. The time is now, and you shoot your damn shot.

“Hey,” you scoot closer to Mr Pennyham on the couch, your heart pounding in your chest—and he glances at you as you settle close by him. You gesture at his beer and say, “Can I get you another cold one, Mister Pennyham?”

He searches your eyes. You’re so transparent, it’s so clear what you’re trying on with him, and his whole body goes still as he looks into your eyes—praying that he’s right. “I’m ok. Thanks, kiddo.”

“You’re good?” you say, inching a little closer, barely hearing him over the sound of your thudding heart.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs your name with caution.

“Oh, ok. Good, see, from over there it looked like you were empty.” You ramble just to fill the silence as you quickly lean closer to him, and as soon as the last word leaves your mouth you plant your lips on his.

His breath hitches in his throat as you press your mouth hard against his. You’re so forceful with it, he thinks for half a second you might be angry with him, before he realises that this is definitely all nerves. He sets his beer on the side table as you break for air and kiss him again, pushing your closed lips onto his, and he gently cups your cheek, trying to subtly signal to you to slow down a little.

Your heart soars as he caresses the side of your face, and you launch yourself into his lap. Mr Pennyham senses you coming and uncrosses his leg. You hook one of your legs over his hips, straddling him—he doesn’t resist, and you take it as sign that he wants more.

You clutch the back of the couch cushions as you open your lips wide and shove into his mouth with your tongue. Sloppily you rub your wet tongue along his, and chew on his lips with yours in a gnawing, chomping display of passion you’d seen a lot in movies and porn. His whiskers tickle the sensitive skin around your lips.

Delicately, Mr Pennyham taps the sides of your thighs, and hums staccato ‘mh, mh, mh’s to get you to ease off.

You pull from his mouth and wipe at some of the saliva that had slipped from the corners of your mouth, and you see Mr Pennyham swallow.

That kiss was—very wet. Mr Pennyham murmurs breathily, “slower, sweetheart. Not so rough.”

You rush in to him, smacking your mouth onto his and Mr Pennyham hums again. He presses his hands to your shoulders gently to hold you back some, and breaks the lock you had on his lips.

He gazes at you: your parted, shiny lips and pupils blown wide—and regardless of your inexperienced efforts, the sight of you and the feel of your body on his incites arousal from deep in his groin.

How hard he’d get once you knew what you were doing—he couldn’t risk thinking about right now.

“Take your time,” he murmurs your name, coiling his fingers in your hair and splaying his fingers over the small of your back. “Be gentle with me, kiddo,” he breathes, leaning up, “like this.” Mr Pennyham caresses your lips with his, grazing your lips with slow, soft touches of his own soft, plush, pink ones.

He feels your deep inhale as he kisses you softly, and he sneaks his eyes open just a sliver to check yours, finding them closed and the crease in your brow smoothing over.

You melt into him, the anxious tension in your limbs softening and floating away as Mr Pennyham twines his thick, warm fingers in your hair and over your lower back. He’s so delicate with you, so patient and giving, cradling you to his solid body as he kisses you gently.

You feel warm all over, weightless and buoyant as you straddle his lap. Whatever he’s doing, feels a million times better than what you’d tried to do before. Lost to the soaring feeling, you hum an unbidden moan into his mouth before you’re fully conscious that it’s even you, that it’s even happening.

For a heartbeat Mr Pennyham stops, startled and surprised and ecstatic that he drew that sound from you—the realisation that he’s maybe the first to ever draw that sound from you—before he kisses you again.

He sighs through his nose when he feels you start to return his caresses, the shape and rhythm of your lips mirroring his own. He pauses the kiss to murmur onto your lips, “that’s good, sweetheart,” before he cants his head to the other side to tease your mouth from a different angle.

His praise sends heat through you, sends desire bubbling away under the surface of your skin and deep in your gut. There’s a pooling liquid warmth between your legs, something hotter and more intense than anything you’ve felt when you’ve explored your body in the privacy of your bedroom. Gingerly, you place your hands to his broad chest, resting your palms to his pectorals. His shirt is so soft beneath your fingertips.

“Mmh,” Mr Pennyham hums, then breaks the kiss to whisper urgently, “yeah touch me.” He tightens his grip on your hair and pulls you closer by your lumbar, and gently licks and swipes his tongue across your lips as he kisses you.

You moan into his mouth, learning quickly how Mr Pennyham likes to be kissed—and how you like to be kissed. You match him with small, gentle licks as your lips skim his, and electricity arcs up your spine when your tongues softly graze together.

“Yes,” Mr Pennyham whispers, “like that, sweetheart.” His palms trail your body to hold your waist as he delves slightly deeper into your mouth, licking you open with his tongue and swallowing your soft moan.

Every sound you make gets him harder than he’s felt in a long time, and he aches to grind his throbbing cock into the apex of your thighs—you’re radiating so much heat, he’s dying to know if you’re wet.

You fist his shirt, the fabric pulling taut as the buttons strain to keep it together. Mr Pennyham deepens the kiss, licking and swirling over your tongue as his lips massage yours, and it’s hotter and wetter in the most spine-tingling, head-spinning, delirium-inducing way.

Mr Pennyham breaks the kiss to murmur, “can I touch you, sweetheart?”

His question sends all your thoughts but one swirling into nothingness. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Here.” You take Mr Pennyham’s big warm hands and bring them to your breasts, your nipples budded and bare beneath your pyjama top.

Mr Pennyham catches your lips in another deep, sensuous kiss, and groans into your mouth as his palms connect with the stiff buds of your firm breasts. He’s snuck so many glances at your young breasts in your unflattering uniform, imagined cupping your tits in so many ways—his head swims to finally feel them in his big, warm hands.

His thumb and forefingers brush over your pebbled peaks with the gentlest squeeze and pull, and you sigh and drop your hips, grazing what you can only imagine is his hard cock with your clothed pussy.

It cracks through him like lightning, electrifying his nerves. He groans into your mouth as your silky tongue and perfect tits and hot pussy send his mind buzzing with desire, with the need to sink his aching cock into your—dear God he hopes for your—tight, virgin pussy. Every instinct is overrun by the need to fuck you until your hands go numb, until your joints don’t feel attached, until you forget any name but his and _then some_ , until your newly broken in pussy seizes and spasms and slicks his cock with your sweet cum.

When he realises he absolutely cannot and must not and will not have any of that, Mr Pennyham pulls quickly from your mouth, panting hard.

He screws his eyes shut tight, head bowing slightly, his fingers squeezing your waist to ground him to something real _like reason_ as he tries to settle his breathing and slow his rapidly beating heart.

“Mm-Mister Pennyham,” you breathe. Your pulse pounds in your ears, in your fingers and toes, in your clit, and you thought you’d been picking up on the cues, been reading this right. “Wh-what’s wrong?” you pant, “what did I do—?”

“No, sweetheart,” Mr Pennyham murmurs with a deeper voice than you’ve ever heard him use, one that shoots right through you. “Not you.” His brings his gaze to yours as his fingers slide down your waist to your thighs, and you’re mesmerised by the dark depths of his eyes and the rosey-red of his kiss-swollen lips.

Mr Pennyham swallows and says, “You’ve had a long day, kiddo. I have too. And I’m not dismissing,” he gestures between your bodies, “this. Just.” He gazes at you, your lust-dazed features sending another sharp spike of arousal through his gut. “Let’s not do something we’ll regret.”

You’re quick to dismiss him, with your mind in its current single-track state. “I won’t. I want it. I won’t regret it.”

Mr Pennyham knows, with how eagerly you tried to dissuade him, how absolutely right he is about this. He’s waited this long, he could wait til you’ve had a less emotional day. He breathes a deep, steadying sigh, and places a hand to your cheek. He runs his thick, warm thumb across your cheekbone and murmurs, “it’s easy to want, sweetheart. We want something, and once we get it, then we want something else.” He sighs, a small, rueful, kind smile. “We don’t know what we’ll regret.”

**XXXX**

You lay in the guest bed, which is fast becoming ‘your bed’ with how frequently you sleep here, restless and wanting. Your skin is hot and tingling all over, and a deep longing pulls at your chest and tugs at your core, yearning for relief from the soreness in the tips of your breasts and the wet pulsing heat between your legs.

You toss and turn in the bed as rain beats against the bedroom window. Thunder rumbles and bright flashes of lightning fracture the sky as you recall how steadfast and resolute Mr Pennyham had been. If you were back home in your own bed, you’d waste no time in taking care of things yourself—but you pleaded with the universe that Mr Pennyham would change his mind.

You’d even left the door just slightly ajar, so that if he decided to come for you, he could slip quietly into the bedroom.

It was torturous to know he was under the same roof as you, and undoubtedly just as hot and needy as you if the long, thick bulge in his pants you’d grazed against was anything to go by.

You toy with the idea of going to find him. Maybe he’d be still on the couch, finishing off his beer. Maybe he’d be in the shower, dripping wet and cooling off. Maybe he’d be in his big bed, sweating the sheets, leaking desire from the tip of his dick for you.

You kick off the sheets and blankets, far too hot now, and sigh deeply. You’ll have to distract yourself, there’s no other way you’ll get to sleep tonight, so you grab your phone for what feels like the fiftieth time since you’d trudged in here.

You’re scrolling, trying to find something that takes your mind off Mr Pennyham, when you notice a tall figure come by the door and stop.

“Sweetheart?” Mr Pennyham murmurs softly, caught by the small light emanating through the open door. He cracks the door open a little wider when he spies your face lit up by the glow of your phone in the otherwise night-dark room. You should’ve been asleep well before now: he’d convinced you to get up here over an hour ago, and that light from your phone was going to ruin your eyes. “What are you doing up, kiddo?”

“Mister Pennyham,” you murmur, sitting up a little on one elbow. “I couldn’t sleep.” He had to know it already, and you feel a little like you’re stating the obvious.

But he’d asked a question with an obvious answer.

“It’s late,” he speaks softly, quietly.

“Were you in bed?”

“No.”

You ready yourself with a few quick breaths. He hadn’t left the couch since he’d urged you to go to bed, and the knowledge brings memories of what you’d done there to the surface of your mind. You murmur, “will you come in?”

Mr Pennyham gulps. His fingers flex where he holds the door. A long beat passes before he speaks again. “Would you like me to, kiddo?”

“Yes,” you whisper your reply without hesitation, your heartbeat ticking up.

He almost doesn’t hear you, over the thrashing rain outside. Mr Pennyham slips into the bedroom, gently closing the door behind him and releasing the handle slowly, so the latch clicks quietly. He spins to face you, and before he can say anything you shift over on the bed to make room for him and breathe the word, “please.”

He toes out of his shoes and makes for the bed quickly. Mr Pennyham slides in next to you—his big, warm, older body pressed close to yours—slips one arm under your head and cradles your face with his other hand, and kisses your lips with passionate need.

You kiss him like he taught you, grazing your tongue over his own and his soft, plush lips, swirling and lolling your tongue and massaging his lips with yours. Desire flares in you renewed, your nerves lighting up, your whole being craving him.

You break the kiss to whisper in his ear, “I’m so wet, Mister Pennyham. I know I am—”

“Oh, sweetheart.”

“—My pussy’s throbbing. I know what,” you swallow, “what makes it better and I think you do too.”

Mr Pennyham catches your mouth in another kiss, sighing softly, and pulls down the vee neck of your pyjama top. He pulls from your lips and kisses down your exposed breast, skimming his lips along your flesh until he grazes your nipple in the dark. He wraps his lips around your stiff bud, licks and sucks it and you bite down hard on your lower lip to keep from crying out from the pleasure of it.

A little clumsily in the dark, Mr Pennyham finds your mouth again. “That’s a good girl. Keep quiet for me.” He presses long, soft kisses to your lips, before murmuring into your mouth, “Your little nip felt so good on my tongue, sweetheart. I wish I could see what pretty colour it is.”

You whimper, a soft and quiet one that doesn’t leave your throat, and clutch his shirt in your palm.

Mr Pennyham bows his head and kisses your furled fist. “Show me what you do, sweetheart. When you’re alone.”

You don’t hesitate. You shove your hand into your pyjama bottoms and rub over your clit, gasping at how absolutely coated in cum the stiff little bud is as you rest back on his forearm.

Mr Pennyham can just barely make out the circling motion of your hand beneath your pyjamas. “You rub your little clit?” he whispers, vindicated and aroused, having beaten his cock to completion many times imagining this very thing.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Anything else, kiddo?”

“Ffingers,” you squeak.

Mr Pennyham seeks your ear, his dick filling up long and thick and hot with lust—fast. “Do you want mine, sweetheart?”

“Oh,” you sigh, so softly, “Mr Pennyham. Please.”

He’s tugs apart the drawstring on your pj bottoms to fit his large hand inside along with yours. He pulls the waistband loose and slips inside your pyjamas, and when his fingertips graze your super hot, super slick pussy lips he looses a deep groan before he can stop it.

He prays he wasn’t too loud; prays the hammering rain outside covered it.

You’re wetter than he ever could’ve imagined, and his hard as stone cock throbs for you, already ready to burst.

Mr Pennyham whispers into your ear again. “How many fingers do you work into your little pussy?”

“Two,” you gasp.

“Was that two, sweetheart?”

You nod, you breathe the word yes, and you slow down working over your clit, too turned on and feeling your orgasm creep up too fast with just the way he was talking to you.

“Let’s try one first, hm?” He trails his fingertips up and down your folds delicately, but to you his touch feels scorching hot. He says, “Mine are bigger than yours.”

The knowledge sends another wave of hot, slippery wet coating your pulsing pussy in anticipation. “One. Please.”

Mr Pennyham teases your dewy opening, and he gathers the nerve to ask the question he’s been pouring over for months—maybe even, for years. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “has anyone touched you here before me?” He eases the tip of finger into your pussy, and you gasp. “Has anyone else ever felt inside your little pussy, sweetheart?”

“Nno,” you tell him truthfully, and the rest of your words fall from your lips before you can think to stop them, your brain working on instinct alone, “you’re the first, Daddy.”

Mr Pennyham’s stomach swoops wildly. So much blood rushes from his head he feels almost faint. He praises the good Lord above that he’s already laying down because he’s dizzy with desire, his head muddled with dark want and desperate need. Only once had he fantasised about you laying on your back and calling him ‘Daddy’—and he came so hard he blacked out, never to experiment with something so powerful again.

Here and now, his cock is so hard it hurts, thanks to your whispered words: throbbing to the point of pain and pressing uncomfortably against his slacks.

He adjusts a little, relieves some of the pressure, licks his lips and murmurs, “Daddy’s the only one, sweetheart?”

You hold back a moan. Your clit aches for more attention than the light, teasing touches you’re giving to it, and the tip of his finger inside your pussy triggers your body to ooze an obscene amount of slick—in anticipation of being filled by something bigger. “Yes Daddy. Please, go inside.”

Mr Pennyham eases his single digit gently into your pussy, and it’s already so much better than what you can do yourself, your back arches and your head presses back against his forearm.

“Oh,” Mr Pennyham sighs softly, “there you go, sweetheart.” He draws his finger out along your silky smooth pussy and slides back in, pressing up against your top-most wall. “Is that better?”

A tiny little squeak of a moan escapes you when you try to tell him ‘yes’, and he hushes you with soothing, quiet ‘sh’s and small, soft pecks to your hairline as he fingers your virgin cunt.

“Just nod, kiddo. Is that good?”

You nod your head rapidly, and circle your clit in time with the inward thrusts of his finger.

“Good,” he croons, “you’re so wet, sweetheart. Do you always get this wet?”

“Ss-sometimes,” you stammer, starting to sweat in your winter pjs.

Mr Pennyham’s pride soars, as much as he tries to tamp it down. _He_ was the one who’d gotten you this hot and needy; it was _him_ who’d made your sweet young pussy flooded with cum. So wet, you could probably take his cock tonight—something he’ll think about later, in his bed.

He whispers into your ear, “Sweetheart, you’re so sexy. Do you think you could fit one more?”

You gasp and sigh, his compliment and the thought of more pleasure almost bringing your orgasm down upon you again. “Yes,” you whisper, “yes, Daddy.”

Mr Pennyham adjusts his hips and legs again, his hard cock straining painfully, and he knows he’s risking your discovery by his daughter but he’s just got to. He just has to.

“One more, sweetheart,” he murmurs onto your lips, and dips into your wet pussy with two long, thick fingers.

Your gasp is loud, as Mr Pennyham knew it would be. But he’d prepared for that, and got his lips close to yours so that it’s quick and easy for him. He joins your mouths together in a kiss, swallowing your sweet, soft moan of pleasure and muffling the sound for anyone outside this room.

You’re probably just dreaming, he’s sure they’d think.

You break the kiss and turn your head into Mr Pennyham’s broad chest, panting breathily onto his shirt to try to give your immense pleasure some miniscule expression. The push and pull of his fingers inside, with your circling fingertips outside, heats you up like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

“Shh,” he coos softly, “you’re ok, sweetheart.”

“Feels so good, Daddy,” you murmur hastily into his chest—but Mr Pennyham doesn’t quite hear you, and he doesn’t dare risk asking you to repeat yourself.

Your wet walls constrict his digits, and he almost swoons. He swallows and murmurs your name, “so tight in your little pussy.”

You whip your head back to centre, too hot, and bite your lip hard to keep from moaning. Your breath comes hard through your nose, and you wonder how you’re going to keep quiet when he makes you—

“Do you make yourself cum like this, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you gasp out, a hushed, strangled sounding thing.

“What do you think about?” Mr Pennyham murmurs, subtly rocking his hips in a way he’s sure you’re too gone to notice. It grants his aching, pulsing cock the slightest friction, just enough to keep him from going mad. He plunges into your wet pussy, your walls sucking tight to his digits, and he rocks his fingers to give you a little come hither.

He’d read about it, and it makes him fucking drip onto his briefs to see the magazines were right.

Your whole body undulates against his with pleasure, prickling and tingling right down to your fingers and toes. In answer to his question, you don’t hold back. Between hot, panting breaths, you whisper in his ear, “you, Daddy.”

Mr Pennyham almost nuts his pants like a boy twenty years his junior. He hums a deep, rumbling, gravelly groan and the sound of it hits you right in the gut, tripping your pleasure and triggering the start of your orgasm.

There’s no way you could hold it off again, and you gasp, “I’m gonna cum.”

“You are, sweetheart?” murmurs Mr Pennyham, still not sure he won’t blow it in his slacks. He had a feeling you were close, felt your hot young cunt wrap up tight around his fingers. “This is how your little pussy feels when you’re gonna cum?”

“Yes, yes,” you pant, rubbing over your clit while he rocks his fingers against your insides.

Mr Pennyham ducks down to your ear, murmuring hot breath over your neck. “You’re such a good girl, gonna cum all over Daddy’s fingers.” He commits the feeling to memory. “Just for me, sweetheart. Just for Daddy to hear it.”

It’s right there, _right_ there, and just before it hits you you whisper, “ _I’mcummingDaddy_.” You curl your top half into his chest as your orgasm crashes over you, and you pant rasping, hoarse breaths onto Mr Pennyham’s shirt.

You cum all over his fingers and Mr Pennyham could die a happy man. Your pussy clenches on his digits and slicks them with so much hot, slippery cum, he’d happily drown in it. He coos encouragements as you ride out the tremors—hushed little murmurs of, “yes, sweetheart. That’s a good girl. Sh, sh. There you go. Shh, good girl.”—and you cling to him, your fingers digging in hard to whatever part of him you can reach.

When you finally go limp in his arms, wracked and ruined from the most powerful orgasm you’ve yet experienced, Mr Pennyham shifts from your sated body. With sticky fingers he ties the drawstring of your pj bottoms back together in a neat bow, hoping to preserve as much of your essence as possible for when, in a few short moments, he’ll lock himself in his room.

Mr Pennyham sits up, kneeling one knee on the bed beside your thrumming, loose form and his other foot planted firmly on the floor. He leans in to give you a kiss goodnight, and you reach for his crotch.

“Oh, no sweetheart,” he murmurs, clasping your hand in his and laying it back by your side. “You rest.”

“I’ve seen porn, Mister Pennyham. I know what to do with it.”

He smiles at your assuredness, and feels a jolt of pleasure race up his spine: that’s another thing he’ll likely get to teach you. “Not tonight, kiddo. Get some sleep now,” he presses a kiss to your nose, your forehead, then your lips. “And,” he murmurs your name, “sweetheart. Call me Peter.”

**XXXX**

Naked, sweating, he holds the two pillows down tight, finding that perfect spot.

His hair falls into his face as he stands at the edge of his bed, plunging his hard dick between the soft pillows as if he’s fucking into your tight, hot, wet little pussy. It’s not perfect, but Good Christ is it enough to allow his imagination to do the rest.

Mr Pennyham clutches the pillowy softness tight in his furled fists as he stuffs his cock into it, thinking about how wet and silky your pussy is, how snug and tight your walls wrapped around his fingers, and the _heat_ of it—he throws his head back—searing his digits as he stroked your pussy until you broke like a dam for him, and whispering, “I’m cumming Daddy.” – That, he plays over and over in his mind.

He contents himself with short, small, grunting sighs as he imagines all the things you’d say to him, all the sweet, sexy ways you’d call him _Daddy_ and ask him to fuck you.

He wonders if, one day, you’d let him fuck you in your uniform—and it’s this that sends him over the edge, pumping a hot, sticky mess of cum into the downy, feathery softness he holds in his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> The song playing in the car is Walk On by U2: https://youtu.be/gwKEdFoUB0o


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